Set Sail for Murder (16 page)

“Maybe not so quick,” Placenta cringed.

“Maybe not so easy,” Tim added.

“Sweetums,” Polly said, “what am I supposed to be, the cornered mouse to someone’s bloodthirsty cat?” She rolled her eyes and held out her flute to Placenta. “I’ll find the
killer, all right, but on my terms. Polly Pepper is never a victim.”

“Even when she’s unexpectedly slapped with divorce papers,” Placenta agreed.

“The only things about that dumb headline and the bogus story that’ll make me jump overboard are the prepositions at the end of the fourth and seventh sentences, as well as the grammatically challenged writer’s dangling participles!”

Saul came to a decision. “I’ll have every last copy of this blasted newsletter destroyed within the hour. I’ll make an announcement and simply say that due to technical difficulties, the
Daily Wave
won’t be published tomorrow. We’re the only ones who’ll ever know that such a mean-spirited joke was made at your expense. I promise.”

“But if this isn’t a joke, and Laura’s killer is responsible for the article, he’ll know that something went wrong, and won’t come forward to make sure I jump or slip overboard, or however he plans to handle my death,” Polly said.

Polly placed her hand on Saul’s shoulder. “Hmm. Perhaps distribution of the
Daily Wave
isn’t such a bad idea.”

“The captain’ll have my head,” Saul insisted. “I’d probably lose my job!”

“Where’s your humanitarian spirit? I’m the one who’s in jeopardy, and all you think about is your income.”

“My wife and kids depend on it.”

“Wife?” Polly said, and shot a look at Tim. She tried to stifle her incredulity that Saul was married—to a woman.

“Are you thinking that if someone took the time to infiltrate our press room, and write spurious copy about you and your demise, they want the newsletter to be up-to-date when it’s placed under all the stateroom doors in the morning?” Saul said.

“We might be able to catch the killer tonight if he thinks the paper’s going out as scheduled,” Polly protested. “I’m in favor of letting him fall into his own trap. Now that we
know what’s in store for me, we can catch whoever tries to do something crazy.

“Speaking of crazy!” Polly suddenly bolted out of her chair. “I’m scheduled to meet Dorian at seven.” She looked at her wristwatch. “Time’s up. Everybody out. I need to shower, put my face on, dress, and be ready for my date.”

As Saul, Tim, and Placenta filed out the door, Saul called back, “I’ll have a security detail following you all night long.”

Tim said, “If Polly isn’t out of Dorian’s cabin by two
A.M.
, no matter what time they arrive, barge in with a faux emergency. She’s getting a little tired of Dorian Dawson anyway.”

Now it was Saul’s turn to roll his eyes. “Oh, him.”

“Him?” Polly asked.

“Dorian, you said? He’s being a pest to our art gallery manager. He brought pictures of Warhols and Hockneys and wants appraisals.”

“I’ll give the guy an appraisal that’ll make him take the leap on his own into the Pacific, if he’s not careful,” Placenta said.

“Scoot,” Polly added, and closed the door.

When Polly was dressed and coiffed and glittering with jewelry, she looked as radiant as any screen queen. She couldn’t have looked any more glamorous if she was facing paparazzi on a red carpet at Cannes. Arriving at the elegant Nautilus Grill dining room, she was escorted by the maître d’ to Dorian’s table. As she passed the other diners, Polly left a trail of whispers.

“Psst. Mental case at three o’clock.”

“Get her autograph before they send her to the asylum!”

Arriving at her table, Dorian put down the emery board he was using. He stood up and grazed his lips against
Polly’s cheek. When she was seated, the waiter, Ernesto, withdrew an open bottle of champagne and poured a glass for Polly. She looked at the glass, then at Dorian, and then at Ernesto.

“Something wrong?” Dorian asked.

Polly grimaced. “Would you think I was a dreadful diva if I made a teensy-weensy observation-slash-request? Look at those poor baby bubbles.” She pointed at the few lethargic beads taking their time moving through the amber liquid to their demise on the surface. “There should be a million of those little suckers trying like hell to beat the others to the crown, like in those old-fashioned sex education films we watched in school. I really hate to make a fuss, but we sorta need to try this again. Don’t you think so?”

Ernesto looked to Dorian for guidance.

Dorian nodded his head in complete agreement. “Um. Yes. A new bottle, please.”

As the waiter reached for the champagne ice bucket, Polly lifted the white linen napkin that was concealing the bottle and looked at the label. “Oh, Sweetums, there’s the problem!” Polly said, sounding as if she just found the answer to the mystery of why Nicolas Cage is a star. “It’s domestic.” She looked at the table and picked up the wine list. Polly opened the folio and drew her finger down the page on the left-hand side. She stopped at “Krug, Clos du Mesnil” and pointed for Ernesto to see. Without looking at the price, she said, “Please be a very darling garçon and ask the sommelier to make sure the bottle is well chilled. Absolutely no colder then forty-three degrees, but no warmer than forty-eight degrees.
Si? Por favor and gracias, Señor Ernesto.”

Just as Ernesto was about to retrieve the unacceptable glass of champagne that he’d originally served, Polly neatly intercepted the glass. “Waste not, want not.” She shrugged and took a long swallow before relinquishing the glass.

Dorian smiled and reached across the table to take Polly’s hand. “The stories are true.”

“Of course they are. The good ones.”

“You are indeed a woman of exquisite culture and refinement.”

“It’s amazing what one picks up from watching old movies. Cary Grant was the best teacher on screen. I just copied what he or Deborah Kerr did in fancy restaurants.”

Dorian deftly released Polly’s hand. “I’ll try my best not to be intimidated by the ghost of a Hollywood legend.”

“Nonsense. I learned just as many bad habits as good from the movies. I’ve been known to investigate strange sounds in the basement with only a candle for light when the electricity unexpectedly goes out. Dumb, I know. I suppose that during an attack by zombies, when my full round of ammunition doesn’t stop the undead, I’d probably throw my empty gun at the beast, knowing full well that wouldn’t do any good. However, I’m not a complete idiot. I never picked up smoking from watching Bette Davis!”

Dorian was enchanted. “If I hadn’t met you on this cruise, it would be the most dreary voyage imaginable. Ah, the champagne is here.”

The sommelier arrived with the bottle of Clos du Mesnil and smiled warmly. “I had to meet the discerning passenger with the elegance and refinement—and bank account—to request such an extraordinary vintage,” he said. “I’m delighted to find that the order wasn’t a mistake or joke.”

The sommelier’s fuss led Dorian to suddenly feel that something wasn’t quite right. Either the Clos du Mesnil was the last bottle of champagne on the planet, or it was the most expensive one. Polly picked up on his unease. “Not to worry, Sweetums,” she said, patting Dorian’s wrist. “I also learned from a Queen Latifah movie that nothing is too good for one’s last night on Earth.”

When the foil wrapper was removed from around the
twisted wire hugging the bonnet, the sommelier poured an inch of champagne into Polly’s flute, and then into Dorian’s. After their respective sips, and nods of acceptance, he filled their glasses three-quarters of the way. The couple clinked their flutes together. “Up yours!” Polly said.

“Cheers to you, too,” Dorian added. “Now, what was that remark about this being your last night? We have three more enchanted evenings to go before we dock in Juneau.”

Polly looked into Dorian’s clear eyes. “Never mind. It’s silly. I’m just supposed to die tonight, that’s all.”

“You’re funny. No wonder you’re famous. You make me laugh.”

“No joke,” Polly said as she pulled a small bit of warm bread from her dinner roll and slathered it with butter. “I read my own obituary in the ship’s newsletter. Pathetic, really. The writer didn’t even bother to mention my record number of Emmy wins. Just referred to Polly Pepper as ‘the famous celebrity.’ Redundant.”

Dorian was bug-eyed. “Where is this newsletter? Surely you’re being protected by the ship’s security personnel.”

“After yesterday’s debacle, I’m not exactly on the captain’s list of indispensable passengers. He’d be happy to see me disappear. The cruise director wants to keep the obit hush-hush. He’s afraid of another black eye on this particular boat, and is hoping it’s a hoax. He said that the publicity department at the Astral Cruise Line company—which owns the Kool Krooz ships—is already working overtime on damage control following the last couple of incidents. You know, the disappearing act pulled by that old couple, and the bride whose husband claims she slipped over the railing of their terrace. And El-Stupido, who was sitting on her terrace railing with a drink in hand when a gust of wind sent her sailing solo for the rest of her life. Not to mention the murder on this voyage.”

The mood at the table had changed. What had begun as
an evening of lightheartedness had drifted into awkwardness. When Ernesto returned to take their dinner orders, Dorian said that he was no longer hungry. “Perhaps too much champagne,” he explained. He ordered an appetizer.

Polly looked at him and shrugged. “I could eat a whale,” she said, and ordered the herb-crusted turbot, fennel and leek ragout. She reached out and touched Ernesto’s wrist. “Sweetums, would you please make sure there are two Amaretto crème brûlées left for dessert? Perhaps we can convince Mr. Hunger Strike here to join my palate for a teensy bit of pleasure.
Merci
and
gracias,”
she said, and returned her attention to Dorian.

Polly folded her hands on the tabletop and sighed. “My apologies for beginning the evening on such a macabre note. By now you’re thinking that I’m a crazy Hollywood legend who is dazed, confused, and thinking she sees Elvis strolling the Lido Deck. I’m changing the subject and we won’t speak again of my very bizarre day and the equally weird death to follow.” After a moment’s silence, Polly clapped her hands together and said, “Art! I’m told that you’ve been visiting the ship’s fine art gallery, and that you’re interested in all that modern stuff. When we return to Los Angeles, you’ll have to drop by Pepper Plantation for a drinky and look-see at my Warhol.”

Dorian perked up. “Warhol. Campbell’s,” he said.

“If you want to call that art,” Polly scoffed. “Talk about practical jokes. I mean, really. Someone paints an ordinary can of soup or a Brillo soap pad box, and it gets into a museum? I wonder who was the first dork to call it ‘art.’”

Dorian took a long sip from his champagne flute. “I hear that you also have a Bachardy. And a Hockney.” He appeared to be salivating.

“And when this stupid recession or depression is over, I’ll get my Lichtenstein back from Christopher Plummer!”

Ernesto arrived with Polly’s turbot and Dorian’s crab-stuffed mushrooms.

Dorian was now more animated and decided that he was hungry after all. “I’ll have what Miss Pepper is having,” he said to Ernesto, who looked perplexed but wrote the order on his pad and shuffled away.

“Art talk gives me an appetite,” Dorian said, spearing his fork into a stuffed mushroom. “I thought that MOMA had all thirty-two of Warhol’s cans,” he said. “How on Earth did you obtain one?”

Polly gave Dorian a grin. “Everybody thinks there were only thirty-two, one for each soup flavor offered by Campbell’s at the time. Tomato. Chicken Noodle. Clam Chowder. Andy actually did a thirty-third can.
Puree of Poo-poo Chien.
It was a joke, and obviously, it didn’t fit in with the other flavors, so he chucked it.”

Dorian nodded. “You know that’s worth a freaking fortune! And your Bachardy is a nude. And the Hockney is one of his pools.”

Polly offered a warm smile. “You’re a closet case. I mean, you lead a double life. Mild-mannered shoe salesman by day, and at night you become a connoisseur of art and an expert on the private world of Polly Pepper.”

“When one has a boring job that they loathe, one must find an activity that’s totally different from what brings home the bacon. I found modern art.”

“This so-called art found me,” she said. “A showbiz colleague needed quick cash a while back and sold me a few of her treasures for pennies on the dollar. I knew she hated to lose those pieces so I called up a friend who teaches art at Beverly Hills High and got one of his students to paint copies for a hundred bucks each. A win-win. The student made his gas money for the month, and my acquaintance could walk around her house, look at the walls, and
pretend she wasn’t the complete failure that she really was, and I had an instant art collection. What fun!”

Polly and Dorian finished their entrées and soon the crème brûlée arrived. Ernesto poured the remaining champagne into Polly’s glass and Dorian made a final toast. “To bubbles! May they never burst!”

D
orian begged Polly to join him for a nightcap in his stateroom. She vacillated. For a moment she considered that since her time on the planet was rumored to be up in a few hours she should take advantage of what would be a last hurrah for intimacy. However, more than desiring to be alone with a man, she wanted to make herself available to find out who, specifically, had plans to knock her off the ship.

At the glass elevator by the atrium, Polly promised Dorian that she’d do everything in her power to live another day. “Either we’ll chat by phone in the morning, or you’ll have to hire the ship’s clairvoyant, Marsha, to communicate with me.” She laughed and gave Dorian a kiss good night. “Ciao,
bella,”
Polly said, before being whisked to the Promenade Deck for a stroll under the stars.

Now, as she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth against the night air, she was intensely alert to the sounds around her: the American and
Intacti
flags slapping in the breeze above the smokestacks, the ocean as the ship cut through the surface. As she passed the lifeboats rigged to the side of the ship, she inhaled the sea air. As a sense of anxiety washed over her, she slowed down and came to a
complete stop next to the metal stairway leading to the next deck.